I continued to drink from Michael’s leg, sucking the lifeless blood into my mouth, trying to satiate my hunger. The process is slow and laborious when the heart is no longer pumping. The jaw aches from the strain. It’s like trying to suck a thick milkshake through a tiny straw. If my hunger hadn’t been so great, I would have given up. There was also something else gnawing at me, and that was the image of Cliff as I drank from his dead husband.
The images were not mine, they were Michael’s. Blood holds memories, whether the life force is pulsing or dormant, it doesn’t matter. The reflections of the deceased’s life are still there. When I drink, I capture images from the corpse’s life. Bits and pieces flutter and strobe. Momentary flashes swirl around like lightning bugs on a hot summer’s n
